


The Restaurant at the End of the Earth

by Lieutenant_Kader (geekstar)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Adventure, Dates with ur bf to carl sagans grave, Donut is experiencing time distortions but its chill, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, New York City, Sickfic, Slow Burn, The reds and blues accidentally experience a slice of life au in order to not be murdered, almost, maybe some mercs, s15, sammies in ithica, the aftermath of season 15, tying up loose ends from season 15
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekstar/pseuds/Lieutenant_Kader
Summary: They all go out to Sammies in Ithica after saving the world.With, y'know, complications.





	1. Symbolic Volleyballs

**Author's Note:**

> I really, REALLY enjoyed season 15 despite myself, but there were a lot of loose strings and critiques that I need to put to rest. This is pretty much a direct follow-up to the season where im just pretending that im in charge of season 16 and get to do as many self-indulgent things as i want
> 
> also yes hitchhikers reference title because what else

“Join your friends in the circle or die here.”

Grif stood up, slowly but not laboriously, as Simmons peered down from the height he sorely wished he could have followed from.

He was debating whether or not he could make the drop without the cables Grif had used, which were now dangling far from reach. Maybe if he jumped? There was no way he could jump that far-

Temple leveled the gun with Grif’s head and Simmons’s heart stuttered with a heavy beat and reboot in his chest.

A desire to shout out died in his throat with a frustrated guttural squawk as he realized he was holding tactical advantage. Temple would be unable to aim at more than one person at a time and was apparently disregarding Simmons as a whole in order to play dramatics with Grif.

And Grif stood there. _Stood there._

Simmons set his aim on Temple’s head-

“I’m not going anywhere."

-and faltered, because something warm and sickly and wrenching had enveloped the core of Simmons' chest, because something was wonderfully right and terribly wrong about that sentence, about this Grif that had come back to him.

“Have it your way then,” Temple concluded, index finger flirting with the trigger, and Simmons had already clicked his own trigger before the bastard had finished the sentence.

He clicked again. Nothing.

“Son of a-” he hissed under his breath with dread sinking into him, looking at the melted exterior of his gun for the first time since the battle with Gene.

His gun had gone sliding toward the edge of the deck and had dangled precariously over the fiery cliff-side during the course of the attack, and Simmons had grabbed it in a rush afterwards. The heat had melted and inverted the chamber. Useless. Fuck. Fuck this dumbass, evil-boss, lava-lair trope.

He threw it aside and pulled out the knife, terrified, knowing he couldn't throw for shit regardless of the measly few training sessions he had attempted with Wash back on Chorus, ready to fucking jump and break his legs if he needed to, eyes turning back to-

To Temple holding the gun _still_ to Grif’s head, stuck in a high-tension staring battle.

Simmons waited, gripping the edge of the upper deck with white knuckles under kevlar, poised for a jump, mind running at a million miles per hour. Maybe if he jumped it would be enough of a distraction and Temple would aim the shot at him instead of Grif. Maybe he could find another way down, maybe there was still a fight, if he could get closer he could maybe put his knife to use still, or grab a gun off of one of the others since they couldn’t use them, or-

“What’s the matter, Temple?” Dylan said, smooth as ice, and Simmons jolted despite himself, the room so quiet he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He needed to move, but he was terrified to rip his eyes away. “Afraid of blood?”

Simmons didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about but apparently it had worked, as Temple whirled around to her, whipping his aim toward her. _“SHUT_ **_UP!"_**

Grif jumped.

Simmons tore his eyes away and bolted, heart pounding and sweat pouring down his face under the helmet as he ran full-force down the first corridor he could find, Grif’s declaration echoing in his mind with every footstep bouncing off the walls, _I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going anywhere_

 

* * *

 

By the time Grif and Simmons were deployed to go check the remains of their crashed arrival ship for anything useful, it had turned from an impressive bonfire to a burnt piece of toast. They had expected to put out at least some of the flames themselves, but the remains of the fire trickled down the stems of grass at their feet with a content sizzle. 

“Well, that solves one problem, I guess,” Grif said, kicking at a piece of debris lazily.

“And probably creates a million more,” Simmons retorted. “I hope no one brought anything important.”

“Oh yeah, fuck!” Grif exclaimed, and without further ado went bounding into the wreckage, leaving Simmons in surprise.

“Wh- Grif, wait, it could still be dangerous!” He called as he watched his step, eyes flying around him at every possible thing he could run into, trip over, or have fall on him.

He was still getting used to Grif's sudden bouts of energy, which Simmons had observed on and off since his return. While he couldn't help but be fond of seeing a more positive, goal-oriented Grif, he had also noted that the positive mood swings usually happened during precarious and unexpected intervals. Ones which Simmons had yet to pattern into something he could understand.

That was slightly worrisome, considering it had already turned into Grif jumping headlong into danger more than once now in a few day's time. 

“I gotta get the-” Grif’s voice was drowned out by the sound of metal shrieking as it was pushed aside.

“Get the what?” Simmons called, hesitant to go any farther if he wasn’t needed. At least if something fell on Grif he could be ready to help or call for assistance.

“Aha!” Grif shouted, and before Simmons could even blink, a white and orange blur was flying Simmons’ way.

He yelped and ducked as the volleyball flew over his head and out into the grass. It slapped across the hillside behind him, deflated and pitiful.

Grif’s face peeked out over a pile of metal scrap, holding another ball in one hand and carrying three under his arm.

“Simmons,” Grif scolded, a grin in his voice. “That’s not how you play volleyball.”

Simmons hoped his deadpan glare was readable through his visor. “ _I know._ I was in the women’s leagu-”

He yelped again as three more got tossed his way, hues of blackened blue and red crossing his vision instantaneously as he dodged and shielded himself. “Ah, fuck, Grif you bastard!” Simmons laughed, haphazardly tripping over wires and the burnt remains of the bridge as he stumbled backwards out toward the grass. “This is- fuck! Mutiny against the red army!”

“Were you bad at dodgeball too?” Grif teased, somehow punting the other clean through the narrow avenue of the ship toward Simmons, who was finally ready to catch it close to his chest with a huff.

“ _Ha-Ha,_ you’re out!” Simmons called in triumph.

“What are you, five?” Grif mused, finally making his way back through the debris. “Yeah, the rest of this is completely trashed though. Our packs are burnt clean through. I don’t even know how these guys made it out as well as they did.”

“Not _too_ well, considering they look like deflated meteorites now,” Simmons said, looking down to observe the one he had caught, wiping at the burnt and blackened material to see a tint of maroon. “Uh.”

Grif suddenly was sliding past him, picking up the other volleyballs out in the grass in a goofy-looking pile in his arms. “Come on, I was serious about punting these things into the volcano.”

Simmons wanted to linger on the moment, but started walking along anyway, aware of the sun falling down toward the horizon (Earth time, normal time, 24-7). “That deck in the complex is closer, we should probably just do it there and get back to the teams.”

Grif laughed. “Oh yeah, maybe we’ll see that Gene guy.”

“I only want to see him if I can punt one of these in his face while he’s trying to climb back up.”

They walked for a while more, bickering lightly, Simmons a few steps behind Grif, examining the maroon colored volleyball in his hands, thumb catching on a bit of orange-red tin foil that had been taped on and crusted over by the fire.

It was his face. He assumed the colors on the other ones had meant to represent the rest of the reds and blues.

One of the last things he had said to Grif before leaving was some dumb comment about him eating too much, followed by Tucker calling him selfish. And then he’d been alone for- weeks? A month? It had been a while now. Alone. And he still came for them. And had anyone even said sorry?

It hadn’t been bad on the moon. No death, no fighting, no weird look-alikes (no Gene), no freelancers getting shot in the neck, and Grif. Grif had been there. They had been all right. Even after the battle, after Epsilon had died, even after the mourning and the, well, _the thing_ \- they had still been all right.

Grif had just wanted things to be how they were. Peaceful, for once. Well, _their_ kind of peace, but. Simmons still thought Grif was lazy, but wanting some peace and quiet for once wasn't a crime. Even if Grif had been kind of dickish about it at the time with the Epsilon comments.

Considering everything that had happened-

They made it to the deck before he even realized, Grif dropping the volleyballs to the ground in a pathetic pile. Simmons startled out of his thoughts as Grif shouted, “EY GENE, STILL HANGIN AROUND?”

Simmons snorted. “Low brow,” He critiqued, knowing the red visor turning his way had a grin underneath it.

But no Gene responded, regardless of the extra moment or two they took to check their perimeter in the event of some poor attempt at a comeback.

Grif returned to center deck and pulled a foot back before swinging it around hard to send the ball flying, hitting a cliff-face with an expressive burst of fire.

Grif whooped at the impact, turning and grabbing the one tinted turquoise beneath the char. “Looks like Tucker every time he goes through one of the teleporters,” he quipped, then dropped it on his foot and sent it careening out into the fire. “Take THAT,” Grif shouted in joy.

Simmons watched as one or two more (of Blue team?) went flying out before looking back down at the one he was holding.

“Want in?” Grif said, after a pause. “Kinda just standing there, dude.”

Simmons could hear the hesitation in his voice, layered beneath the common coating of casual downplay.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He huffed a soft breath of laughter. “You were pretty mad at us, huh?” Simmons said, still looking at the ball.

“What?” Grif said, taken aback. “What are you- Oh. No, I,”

Simmons looked up, realizing himself. “I mean, I get it, we-”

“Nonono, Simmons, I-” Grif almost laughed, a hand to his helmet like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I mean-yeah, but-”

“It’s fine, I didn’t mean-”

“Wait, are you being passive aggressive again? Sometimes you-”

“Wh- no, I’m not!” Simmons suddenly affronted, “I’m being serious, we were- I had been kinda shitty and-”

“Wait, stop,” Grif motioned with his hand. “Stop stop stop. Let’s go back. That’s not- the volleyballs weren’t to like, kick around and take my anger issues out on or whatever. They were- I was-”

Grif faltered on his words, and suddenly Simmons didn’t feel the need to interrupt.

Grif gestured his hands around vaguely in Simmons general direction before dropping them and groaning. “ _God_ , don’t make me explain this, Simmons. I wasn’t mad. I mean, I was, for a bit, but then I super, duper, uber wasn’t.”

“Then,” Simmons started, then stopped, then started, “Then what was-”

Grif turned and kicked another ball out, farther than the rest. They both watched it careen into the distance. 

“I’m tired of talking to these guys, all right?” Grif said finally, voice warbling in that way it did whenever he was flustered.

Simmons stared. Grif was turned away from him but glowing golden-orange with the light of the fires. “I’ve...got better company now.”

And it clicked.

“Oh.” he responded numbly. “Ooooh, cool.”

He looked back down at...himself in his hands, or at least some strange symbol of himself. Or maybe a version of himself he too would prefer some distance from.

He stepped up where Grif was, dropped the ball, and kicked, and they watched it sail out and explode in a flash of light in the distance.

“You should’ve played soccer,” Grif said.

Simmons punched him in the shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so like, this was a pretty short chapter with just The Boys, but EVERY character shows up next chapter and they're generally gonna be a lot longer than this i think, don't worry
> 
> also please comment/kudos if you like i really appreciate it thanks!!!


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets ready to depart.

The ship the lieutenants had brought was larger than the average carrier vessel, with a bridge, multi-seat hangar, and a few side quarters of multiple uses. It was a familiar, old-school UNSC design that brought back some faint sense of Chorusan nostalgia. Simmons paid it the quickest examination upon entrance, hoping they would be unloading once again soon enough. They were on Earth, after all, and god knows he could eat.

Earlier he had responded to the notion of food that he was _peckish_ , but loading on to the ship with the sun ( _Sol,_ he reminded himself, _their sun_ ) setting behind him, his stomach decided to grumble like the sound of a feral cat.

“Same,” Grif responded, trudging in behind him up the hangar, patting his stomach. “Can we go to Sammie’s?”

“Who’s Sammy?” Simmons asked as Kaikana bounced in behind them with Donut following with the pep of a buzzing bee.

Carolina, Caboose, Doc, and Tucker had already situated themselves on the ship a few minutes prior to the red's entrance. Simmons assumed they had crammed themselves into some crews quarters to check on Carolina, considering they were absent from the hangar.

Grif huffed a breath of laughter, the slightest tint of warmth in his voice. “It’s not a _person_ , it’s-”

“Oh, that’s that kick-ass pizza shop in Ithica, right bro?” Kaikana said, bubbly as ever, suddenly shoulder to shoulder with Simmons for some reason, causing his immediate distress and a subtle step back. Simmons's mind stumbled over all of this foreign information. Ithica? Wasn’t that greek? Had Grif mentioned this before? Why couldn't he remember?

“Yeah, I’ve been craving it for ages. Might as well go somewhere good since we’re on Earth.” Grif said, falling into one of the hangar seats with a sigh of exhaustion.

“Uh, about that,” Jensen said, entering from the bridge, where the lieutenants had been loudly bickering over controls. “The reporter lady shaid shometing about clearing your name, but you’re all shtill fugitives azh of now, sho-”

“Oh, that should be no problem!” Donut said, chipper as ever, sitting down crisply in a seat across the hangar from Grif and crossing his legs. “We’ll just have to bottom for a while!”

“Yeah, lay low! Scope shit out,” Kaikana accidentally translated with ease.

“Oh god,” Grif groaned. “I forgot you two both speak indiscernible innuendo."

“Wait, Jensen’s right,” Simmons said, catching up and pointedly ignoring where the conversation had gone, “this is going to be complicated. We can’t be walking around in our armor.”

“So?” Grif retorted, “Why the hell would we go to a pizza place in full armor anyway?”

 _“We don’t have clothes, Grif,”_ Simmons said. “Our other ship was fried to a crisp, remember? We can’t walk into a JC Penny in Kevlar undersuits, people will ask questions! And that’s assuming we can dock somewhere nearby...nearby-”

“New York City, bitches!” Kaikana fist pumped.

“-New York City,” Simmons continued, then did a double-take at Kaikana, who had walked over and plopped down next to Grif. “New York C- you’re kidding me."

“Well, Ithica,” Grif specified dryly.

Donut squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, we’re gonna go shopping in New York City?!”

“Yeah boiiiii, and clubbing!” Kaikana said, causing Donut to clap his hands in excitement.

Simmons sighed. “Oh god, we seriously can’t just go to some ghost town Taco Bell?”

Sarge’s guffaw echoed into the hangar as his boots reverberated off the metal. They all turned to see him dripping wet, Lopez’s head curled under an arm. “Come on Simmons, where’s the challenge in that?”

“Does _everything_ need to be a challenge, sir?” Simmons said witheringly.

“Depends! Was it Grif’s idea?” Sarge said.

“It was Donuts.” Grif immediately lied.

"Grif!" Simmons glared at him before realizing he could now safely take his helmet off to maximize the impact of his glowering, and began to fiddle with the latches.

“Well, I _am_ interested in some world- _class sh- ~~o *^--%--**--**oadw~~ ay!” _Donut said.

Simmons turned to Donut, sitting prim as usual. He felt like he had just heard a record skip. “What?”

“I _said_ , _I’m_ interested in world-class shopping, cuisine, and some Broadway maybe! If we have the time, that is,” Donut clarified.

“Well there ya have it! A challenging adventure that’s not Grif’s idea! Sounds great to me!” Sarge chirped back happily, his voice becoming vaguely muffled as Simmons removed his helmet, relying on external sound, hearing the buzz of the ship more clearly, re-normalizing himself to the non-tinted hues of the ship around him.

Simmons dropped into the seat on the other side of Grif with a sigh of exhaustion, only realizing he had chosen to be explicitly close when Grif’s helmet tilted his way without remark.

Pretending not to have done it for any particular reason seemed to be Simmons’s only out, so he closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the seat’s shitty cushioning. If he had become flush in any way he hoped it could be disregarded as fatigue.

“Okay, so how are we going to land?” He said, wincing at the lengths to which they were going to make this difficult. “Is there a shipyard nearby?”

Jensen startled, having been standing awkwardly to the side. “Oh, thatsh part of the problem. If we land in a dock we’re going to have to show identification, and- fugitives. Yeah.”

“We can fight our way off!” Sarge exclaimed.

 _“Civilians,_ sir, we’re going to a _civilian_ city,” Simmons reminded, eyes still closed.

Sarge’s shoulders fell with a grunt. “Damn. Punchin some ghosts is startin to sound better."

“I know a place,” Grif perked up, Simmons peeking open an eye to look over at him. “It’s a ways outside the city but it’s pretty fast travel through the metro once we’ve landed. Takes like, thirty minutes tops into Ithica.”

Why Grif knew so much about New York City, Simmons was unsure, but he didn’t ask, tempted to fit together the puzzle pieces of what he already knew to find some kind of answer. Grif was from Hawaii, not much for family, so when…?

“Do we have money for transportation?” Simmons asked instead.

“Yesh, shir!” Jensen said, causing Simmons to look over at her in alarm and then _immediately at the floor,_ his face red as his armor. It had become so easy to forget his ranking while he had been with the reds and blues. “All exshpenshes are paid for thanksh to Chorush taxpayer dollarsh!”

"That's nice of them!" Donut said.

"And probably unethical, but fuck it, we saved their asses," Grif added.

“Well,” Simmons said, looking for more problems. “Fuck.”

Palomo popped his head out from the doorway into the bridge. “Did I hear we’re going clothes shopping for you guys?”

“Yes,” Donut said in an oddly grave voice, causing every head to turn his way. “And I demand _nothing less than sequins._ ”

"I admire your individuality, sir!" Palomo concurred, saluting uniformly and running back into the bridge. Simmons could hear him relaying the information to Andersmith. Thank fuck Jensen wasn't driving.

"Someone should tell Tucker what the plan is," Simmons said absently. "Since he's our leader or something."

Grif snorted. "Oh Simmons, I missed you announcing to a room that someone should do a menial task involving communicating with superiors, automatically followed by you doing the thing yourself because no one else wants to."

Simmons sat up. "What! I do not!"

Grif angled his helmet to the side, giving him a _look._ "Sure. So who's gonna do it instead of you?"

"Jen-" Simmons looked around. Jensen was gone, probably making plans with the other lieutenants. Kaikana was already asleep, curled up next to Grif. And there was no way he could ask Sarge and even less chance of Sarge _reporting to Tucker_ in any proper manner of use, and who was regardless having a lengthy debate with Lopez about whether or not you could punch a ghost, drowsing off marginally.

His eyes turned to Donut, who was looking at his hands, helmet dropped to the seat next to him. "Donut, go tell Tucker what the plan is so I can prove Grif wrong."

Donut looked up in surprise and blinked.

Suddenly something...shifted, indiscernible but present in Simmons's vision that made him feel slightly askew, like looking at two pictures that were identical and trying to spot the differences. And Donut looked more confused too.

An awkward moment passed.

"Um." Grif said beside him.

"...Ssssiiimmons?" Donut said slowly, almost unsure.

"...Yes?" Simmons replied, brows furrowed and blinking a couple times to make sure he didn't just have something in his eye.

Donut immediately went from nervous to relieved, and vaguely peeved. "Why were you staring at me for so long? You know that's rude, right?"

"Wh-" Simmons bristled, face going red. "I wasn't- I wasn't staring! I just asked you to go tell Tucker the plans!"

Donut made a face. "Well, I just told you I would...?"

What. "No you didn't!"

Donut did an annoying pout, crossing his arms. "I just did!"

"Well, you just did right NOW-"

"That's what I'm saying!"

"No, you were saying you _already_ did, that's different from when you just told me you just did right-"

Grif made a frustrated sound as he stood up. "Okay, I missed you guys, but not enough to keep listening to this conversation, so I'm gonna go."

Simmons brightened. "Oh, you're going to go tell T-"

Grif laughed. "No, I'm gonna go see if my face still exists after falling off a two-story height, and then I'm gonna find a place to take a nap. You have fun with your thing."

And without further ado, went down the hall, tugging his helmet off as he turned the corner. God dammit.

Simmons turned to glare at Donut, who was looking at his hands again. "Well?"

Donut blinked and looked up again with a blank expression.

Simmons waited.

"...Sorry, what was that Simmons?"

"FINE!" Simmons threw his hands up. "I GIVE!" And walked down the corridor.

Grif had disappeared down one door or another, but Simmons passed all that were closed for the one at the end of the hall where the raucous sound was coming from.

Simmons rolled his eyes in expectation. Blue team problems.

It was Doc he heard first. "Please, Tucker, I need space to move around in here if I'm going to-"

"Right, like I'm gonna leave you of all people alone with her, as if!" Tucker barked back.

Carolina was laying on a makeshift cot, partially undone from her under-suit (Simmons would feel more bashful if not for the fact that she had been jogging around in a sports bra for the duration of their time on the moon, but he still looked away regardless) and looking like she hadn't slept in a month. Her already pale skin was nearly white as snow, and her muscled frame had a bit of a thinning edge to it.

Tucker was unhelmeted and glaring daggers at an anxious Doc, both of which were on opposite sides of the cot. The fact that neither of them had been beaten to bits by Carolina already had to be a testament to how strained she was from the past few weeks of fighting. "Tucker, _I'm fine,_ I can handle a _medic_ if I need to," she said slowly, obviously walking on the last thread of her patience.

"Whatever, but I'm sitting outside the door, and if I hear O'malley _one time_ I'm kicking you out," Tucker said, glaring behind him as he walked out the door and nearly straight into Simmons. "Woah, the fuck dude?"

"Yeah, hi," Simmons started. "So we're going for pizza in New York, apparently."

Tucker squinted at him, processing the information. "Okay, admittedly, that sounds kick ass, but also-"

"We can't dock because we'd have to prove our identification, which we can't give, because we're still wanted, so Grif knows a place we can hide the ship outside the city and travel in. Chorus is covering our finances, the lieutenants are gonna go ahead of us to get us clothes, since everything burned in the other ship." Simmons relayed all of this as dryly as he could, feeling the exhaustion eating at him. "The pizza place is called Sammies, apparently. In Ithica-"

"Okay, okay, stop talking like a boring travel guide," Tucker said. "Just-fine. Carolina might have to stay behind to rest so after we get the food we should head back-"

Carolina's dry voice boomed from behind him. "I. AM. FINE."

Doc's face popped out from behind the doorway with a smile. "She's not! She's actually not. You were on point with that one."

"Don't suck up to me," Tucker responded. Doc retreated without comment. Tucker returned to look Simmons up and down. "You look like shit."

Simmons' bristled, but Tucker waved his hand around before he could snap back. "I'm saying you should go sit the fuck down somewhere and take a nap," Tucker said, giving him a deadpan look as he slid down the wall to the floor. "Caboose is out like a light for once, so that's what I'm doing."

"Oh yeah." Simmons said, looking around at the other quarters. "I guess so." He turned to walk away before stopping. "You sound like Wash, you fucking dad."

Tucker snorted. "I'm the only one here that actually IS a dad. I have authority to be a dad. Don't fucking sass me."

 

* * *

 

 

Grif winced as he pressed a finger to the welts on his forehead, blooming into hues of green and purple. He hadn't realized that he had been bleeding at some point, but the dried bits of blood marking lines from his cheekbone to his chin said otherwise.

He stared into the worn mirror in front of him. He had never given a shit for looks, but jesus could he use a bit of fixing up. He had shaved on the moon during his clean-freak phase, which had by now turned into a stubble which aged him. He hadn't had the skill to cut his hair himself (Donut or Simmons used to do it for him every couple years or so), so his hair was pulled back into it's bun, small curled strands poking out messily. 

He had developed bags under his eyes during the course of his time on the moon, and considering the last time he had slept was for a short while in the cells, they hadn't gotten any better.

The bruising was probably making him look worse off than he really was, granted. An eye was blackening from Temple's elbow jutting into it during the fight.

He sighed, looking at the deep purple lump on his forehead.

"Well," he mumbled. "Could be worse." He poked at it again and winced. 

The door opened.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Simmons startled, before his eyes widened further. "Grif, what the FUCK."

"Thanks Simmons," Grif deadpanned. "That'll be my reaction next time I walk in on _you_ in the bathroom." 

Simmons didn't pay him any heed, walking in and hesitantly putting his hands up, as if he was going to grab Grif's face. "The floor really kicked your ass, do you have a concussion?"

Grif stepped back, alarmed by the concern in Simmons's examining eyes. "I think I would've been at least a bit incoherent by now if I had a concussion, dude, it's fine-"

Simmons turned and started slamming open the cabinets lining the walls. "Why didn't you put antiseptic on it yet? Do you really want an infection in your FACE? God knows how many germs fester in the inside of your helmet-"

Grif sat down on the seated toilet to the side of the sink, staring, an elbow on the counter edge. "I didn't ask, you don't have to do anything if it's so much of a hassle."

He had hoped to come off as sarcastic, but it had turned into a slightly more honest and genuine a statement. Simmons seemed to pause for a thin moment before finding a bottle and grabbing a rag, which he sniffed experimentally. Assumedly it was clean enough, because suddenly he was kneeling in front of Grif and pouring the disinfectant on it. 

"Like you'd put the effort in," Simmons muttered, eyes trained on the rag and iodine. His eyes flicked up to the one on Grif's forehead and raised an eyebrow. "You were in here poking at it, weren't you?"

"Like you don't do that to _your_ bruises," Grif said, trying to ignore the unnecessary closeness of the situation so as not to disrupt it. 

Simmons gave him a look. "Knew it. Here," and started soaking the alcohol into the bruise gently. Grif winced, hand flying up to it instinctively and grazing the top of Simmons's hand.

"Uh," Simmons said, their eyes meeting. "Hold on to it while I find an ice pack or a healing unit or something."

Their hands brushed again as Grif laid his hand flat over the rag and Simmons's hand slid away, running out the door. 

He sat back with a deep exhale, trying to settle the touch-starved aching reaction he got from being so close to another person. Simmons especially, he noted with a flare of annoyance at himself.

The hum of the ship's engines revving calmed his mind and drowned out the sound of his foot tapping, so he stopped. He hid his relief when Simmons came back a minute later, filling the cramped room with motion and life again and waving around a med kit.

"We're leaving," Simmons informed him, "So we should probably finish up and get seated for lift-off bef-"

The ship lurched into the air, Simmons flying back into the wall and Grif desperately clutching to the counter at his side. The engines turned to a roar as acceleration kept them pinned to place, before suddenly lurching again, Simmons falling forward, slapping a hand on to Grif's shoulder and another on to the counter to steady himself.

"Fucking christ," Grif exhaled. The ship seemed to be done with it's spasm as fast as it had started. Simmons was still clutching his shoulder with a firm grip, obviously distrusting that it was over. Grif was thankful that it was the human hand, or else he may have been down an arm himself.

The shoddy intercom system crackled to life as Palomo's voice surrounded them. _"Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome to your flight,"_ he said in an uncharacteristically smooth voice.  _"We apologize for some mild turbulence but we guarantee our lovely pilot Katie Jensen has us on track for the remaining duration of your trip."_

Simmons let go as they both looked at each other.

"Maaaybe you should drive," Simmons said.

Palomo's voice crackled on to the speakers again. _"Please remember to wear seat-belts and thank you for riding with us today. Next stop: Ithica!"_

The comm turned off. Then turned on again.

_"Also, get ready to rock, and definitely roll, because 1. I'm turning on some jams, and 2. we are so doing a barrel roll."_

Simmons and Grif looked at each other again with alarm.

"You should definitely dr-"

"Go, go go!" Grif shouted, jumping up, the two of them running out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully everyones in character and the pacing is all right because holy hell that's a lot of characters to juggle @___@ Hope you like, comment/kudos?


	3. Don't You (Forget About Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many people continue to be thrown around by poorly piloted vehicles and Jax meets an old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha okay, so there's like, an actual plot to this story

"This is C1," Bitters droned into the comm system. "C1 requesting contact with C3, do you copy, over."

Bitters leaned back into the comms chair. Captain Grif was a seat away, stuffing an ungloved hand now coated in cheese dust back into an indisputably expired bag of chips.

Maybe it said something about Jensen's driving that Captain Grif seemed to be piloting merely by propping his boots atop the navigations console as a footrest and the sailing seemed smooth. 

Granted, the Captain could do what he liked. He had saved their entire planet and all.

"Hey Bitters," Grif said, mouth full. "Where're you guys keeping th'rest of th'shnacks?"

Bitters let his eyes rest. "I don't even know where you found those to begin with, and also, I'm not getting up."

"I'm not getting up, _sir_."

"I know you aren't."

"Okay, I fell into that, but also, amateur hour, Bitters," Grif rebutted, raising a foot to look questioningly at a blinking button. "Whoops, hope that means something good."

Bitters sighed and sat up again, ignoring his Captain and clicking communications back on. "C1 to C3, do you copy, over."

The response crackled to life as the pilot of the Chorus-3 carrier responded. _"Yep, I mean over, I mean yes, hi,"_   she spoke, obviously way too close to the microphone by the muffled sound. _"Cho-C3 here, alls well, just uh, working our way back to Choru-chocobo, i mean, shit-"_

The comm clicked off momentarily. Bitters clicked his comm on. "Did you just try to save your near-slip of our top-secret destination by calling our planet a giant fantasy chicken, over," Bitters deadpanned.

 _"I get nervous on the phone!"_ A small silence. _"Over."_

Bitters rolled his eyes. He could name the amount of professional soldiers in this army on one hand. Not that he was included. "Are the passengers secure, Marty, over?"

A beat. _"You mean the crazy Temple dude and his minions or the reporter and **her** minion, over?"_

Bitters clicked his comm on. "If you die because someone hacks into this radio frequency and automatically knows all of our secrets, it's not my fault, over."

_"Fuck! Okay, everything's fine, the creepy dudes are locked up and the reporter lady is just harassing everyone for an interview and writing. Matthews is cool too, he's a'bubblin with glee over this mission. Over."_

Bitters smiled under his helmet. "Of course he is," he replied sardonically. "Uh...Tell him I said hi. Over."

_"Cute, over."_

"Fuck you, over."

"Teenagers," Grif muttered.

Bitters threw a middle finger toward his Captain, thankful that the blush was hidden under his visor. Marty crackled back on to the speakers, _"Oi, so how are you guys? Over?"_

"We're getting food, apparently."

"Not just ANY food," Grif responded, "SAMMIES, the best pizza place in the world-"

"Yeah, I'm sure all of our enemies will love your recommendation," Bitters responded. Why did he even bother with these people?

 _"Is- is that Captain Grif?"_ Marty responded. Bitters could visualize her olive face paling. _"Oh my god, could he hear me this whole time? I'm gonna die."_

"He is the last person in the universe you should feel embarrassed in front of," Bitters responded, earning a light thwack upside the head from a projectile chip. "Over."

_"Bitters I'm gonna kill you. I gotta go, I just realized the camera guy is trying to do a 360 shot of me by climbing over the comms, over."_

Jensen popped her head around the corner just as Bitters clicked the comm. "Ish that Marty? Hi Marty! over!"

_"JAY! Love you! Over and out gET OFF-"_

The comm clicked off.

Bitters sighed deeply.

"I can't believe we all saved a planet," Grif said. "Oh, wait. Two."

 

* * *

 

Nothing was stranger than this.

Space pirates? Doppelgangers? Learning _they_ were the doppelgangers? Dinosaurs? Dinosaurs fighting an uprising of robots? Time machine?

None of it compared to being in a metro train in civvies. Surrounded by strangers in civvies. Simmons felt like he may as well be naked, surrounded by naked strangers, people who could turn on them at any moment if they knew who they were, or who they supposedly were, which were terrorists, and oh god, how would these people feel if they knew they were on a public train with supposed space-faring terrorists? And even though they weren't terrorists, no one had a very positive opinion on Chorus right now anyway, what with the violent uprising and refusal to join the UNSC, which, fuck yeah, go Chorus, but that didn't necessarily feel nice _right now_ , unprotected, at the whim and mercy of the public.

Strange. It was also far more nerve-wracking.

"Calm down," Grif said. Also Grif right next to him, wearing an orange _I <3 Allegheny National Forest_ t-shirt and cargo shorts and a still very bruised face. Very close to him.

They had (crash)landed in the Pennsylvanian forest and had the lieutenants retrieve clothes from the closest store, which had apparently been the Allegheny National Forest Gift Shop, because they all looked like colorful day hikers. The lieutenants had been thoughtful enough to try and color code the shirts as best they could, but Simmons's maroon looked slightly more like a dark hot pink and read, _Allegheny: A Whole Real Forest_.

Simmons tapped his foot, one sweaty hand clinging to the railing above his head, and a fist pulled up close to his chest, holding himself in a singular unit of space as much as he could muster, eyes rolling from where they were fixated on the train ceiling to Grif, _his_ hand clutching the railing dangerously close to Simmons's hand, their bare arms tapping each other occasionally when the train shifted in speed.

"I am calm," he lied.

"You are the textbook example of a man with social anxiety. _Or_ an escaped convict," Grif countered.

Caboose leaned in from Simmons's other side, which was completely unnecessary because he was absolutely already in Simmons's bubble. He whispered loudly, _"Griff, we aren't supposed to talk about being escap-"_

"ESCAPADES," Simmons shouted, as several heads turned toward them, "Escapades, a word meaning an act or incident involving excitement, daring, or adventure, and yes of course we can talk about those because we had so many in the wonderful Allegory forest, didn't we?"

"Allegheny," Grif said deadpan.

"That too."

"It says it on our shirts, if you need that for reference next time you want to shout it out to a crowd."

"Shut up," Simmons said, jabbing Grif in the stomach slightly and eyeing the crowd, who fortunately had gone back to their own conversations and devices.

"YES," Caboose started shouting, immediately ruining that, "I ALSO HAVE ENJOYED OUR ES-CAH-PEYS AND WOULD LIKE TO SHOUT ABOUT IT, BUT THE FOREST WAS DEFINITELY NOT AS COOL AS THE TIME MAChMMMF"

"SSSSSSHHHHHHHHH!!!" Grif and Simmons said, Grif smashing a palm over Caboose's mouth.

Tucker suddenly appeared, shuffling through the crowd around them. "God dammit, can't I leave you guys alone for five minutes?"

"You say that like picking up chicks was so important," Grif said, pulling his hand back and wiping it on his shirt. Gross. 

"It WOULD be if your sister wasn't picking them up instead," Tucker grumbled. Grif laughed, and Simmons turned at the perfect moment to see the proud smile on his face when he did.

He hadn't seen Grif smile in a while.

He forgot Grif had dimples.

"Oh hey guys!" Donut said, sliding in close in front of them, as in their space as he could possibly be, wearing a pink bedazzled shirt announcing _**I <3 HARD WOOD** (from Allegheny Forest!)_.

"Sorry I was gone so long, it took ages to find the loo!"

"You were here two minutes ago, Donut, we survived," Grif said, rolling his eyes. Donut's face soured into a pout of confusion.

"No I wasn't, it's been nearly half an hour!"

"No it hasn't, Donut, don't be dramatic," Simmons scolded. Donut turned his nose up to him.

"You guys are so mean! ANYWAY, I saw Sarge, and he said he talked with the conductor, and that we should be arriving early!"

"Finally," Tucker said. Caboose cheered.

"Good, I'm starving," Grif groaned.

"Wait, what conductor?" Simmons said. "This is an automated bullet train, there is no conductor."

Donut opened his mouth just as a musical ping sounded from the speaker system. _Error- Rescheduling- Data re-re-re-re- zzZz-_

A low murmur of nervousness quickly was sweeping through the crowd. 

"Of course," Grif said. "We can't do one thing normally, can we?"

The train lurched as it gained speed, and Donut lurched forward so hard that he pushed against Grif and Simmons, both of which losing their footing and tumbling back until they hit the floor of the train, Donut somehow on top of BOTH of them, hands on their chests.

"God dammit, Donut!" Grif shouted, trying to push himself up. Simmons winced at the feeling of a bruise forming on the back of his head.

"Oops, sorry guys!" Donut said. "Certainly wasn't how I imagined this to be going down, especially the whole _me on top_ thing-"

Simmons looked around confusedly at the people around them. Few people were reacting, and it suddenly didn't feel like the train was moving that fast at all. It had also gotten really...quiet. "Did we...slow down?" He said quietly, scared to interrupt the awkward silence. "I thought the train had sped up."

Grif pushed Donut off, and Simmons felt the weight shift off of him. Grif started, "No, we-"

Suddenly the feeling of speed came back, and people were shouting behind them, passengers tumbling back from them like dominoes, and Simmons clutched at a pole close to him to keep balanced, feeling incredibly nauseous at the changes in speed.

Tucker was laughing at all three of them, which kind of seemed like a delayed reaction, considering it was at least several seconds ago they had all fallen, but Simmons was too focused on not throwing up to care.

They certainly were good at making strange situations stranger. 

Then again, Simmons was starting to think his perception of normal was skewed. 

 

* * *

 

After Jax had been shooed away by Private Marty (and previously by every other soldier on board the ship, with the exception of Matthews, who was surprisingly easy to get along with), he scuttered off to find Dylan, who was still hunched over a portable computer, sitting on the floor of a storage room, typing too fast to be human.

She seemed to know it was him without even looking up. "If you ask me one more time if you can see it, I'm going to shove you out the airlock."

"Aw come on, Dylan, please?" Jax said. "There's only so many shots I can take in a ship this small, I'm bored! Maybe I can help-"

"No," Dylan emphasized, the glow of the screen mirrored on her visor. "You trying to give me advice is exactly why I don't want to read it to you."

Jax plopped down and crossed his legs in front of her, back against shipping boxes. "Then I won't say anything at all! I'm just excited, it's going to be so cool! The world saved by heroes, and the heroes saved by the reporter!"

Dylan finally tilted her helmet up toward him in reaction before returning her eyes to her work. A tint of a smile was in her voice when she responded, "And the reporter's cameraman. Hear any news?"

"Sounds like they're going out to eat at some place called Sammies," Jax said. "Very 80's ending, huh? End of the story, they go out and get pizza, everyone laughing at a table but you don't know what they're laughing about, which is just awkward for the audience honestly, Breakfast Club really nailed the classic 80's ending better-"

"Jax, I don't know what you're talking about and I really don't care-"

If Jax wasn't wearing a helmet, his jaw would have dropped to the floor. "You haven't seen Breakfast Club?!? Augh, Dylan, you're killing me! We should watch it!"

Dylan gave him a long, long, long look. "Okay, how about this: If you stay quiet until I finish my article, I promise you we'll watch it as soon as I send it to my boss."

"YES!" Jax fistpumped. Then shrunk. "I mean, yes," he whispered, zipping his helmet-mouth shut and throwing away the key.

The sound of tapping keys filled the room.

"...How far are you?" Jax whispered.

"Jax."

"I think I'm gonna go look around!" Jax announced, standing up. "You let me know when you're done."

Dylan's shoulders dropped in relief. "Thank you, I promise I will."

As soon as the door was closed shut behind him, Jax fiddled with the files in his helmet storage, eventually pulling up the song he wanted.

 _Don't You (Forget About Me)_ finally began playing from his helmet's speakers, and Jax melted into a momentary nostalgic appreciation.

Then the ship careened with the sound of shrieking metal.

Jax collided with another soldier, the two of them slamming into the back wall of the corridor.

"What the hell was that?!" The soldier shouted, a tangled mess underneath him.

"Oh, this is gonna be great with the music," Jax said, propping himself up enough to look around. Soldiers were shouting in confusion and the lights flickered as a rumble shivered through the ship. Everything went black before the emergency lighting illuminated everything in reds and blues.

"Nice, really setting the stage here," Jax mused.

"Get the fuck off of me!" The soldier barked, shoving Jax off easily and sending him tumbling as the ship tilted again. Jax clicked record from his position on the ground, getting a solid ground-angle shot of the soldier running down the hallway away from him.

A flicker of fear shot through him, realizing Dylan was still in a storage room surrounded by heavy metal containers. "Oh, shoot, Dylan!"

The yelling was getting more panicked in the distance. Jax hoisted himself up, steadying himself against the walls and clinging to the frame of the storage room doorway. He waved at the motion sensor to no avail.

"Dylan, you okay in there?" Jax shouted into the door, pulling at the non-budging handle.

"I'm okay!" Dylan's muffled voice responded. Jax verbally pronounced the word Phew! before Dylan continued. "I'm- there's a shelf on me, but I think I can push it off, it's just- heavy. What's happening?"

"I dunno, but I have a feeling we're under attack!" Jax responded. "I'm trying to get the door open so I can get you out of there!"

Someone screamed, loudly and closer. Jax turned to the left where the open hangar room was, where a soldier was shooting at something out of Jax's sight.

"Or so that I can hide in there with you," Jax added, yanking at the door a little bit harder.

A soldier jumped into the hallway as cover, holding a gun to her chest and breathing heavily. The pilot. Apparently no one was driving. She turned to look at him.

"Hey, dumbass, hide somewhere!" She shouted, cocking her gun.

"I'm attempting that," he returned weakly.

"Try a different fucking door!" She said, turning back around the corner and firing a few shots. "There's an intruder, they could be after you and Ms. Dylan!"

"Us?" Jax gulped. Jim Kerr was singing a sweet symphony of HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY's into his ears. 

Now Dylan sounded much more alert through the door. "Jax, I'm safer locked in here, go find another place to hide."

Jax yanked at the door desperately. "I can't leave you here! Especially when you say something like that, that's just begging for a heroic death!"

"This isn't a movie, Jax, use your head!" Dylan shouted. "If anything you're bringing attention to my location, and we have to save the story."

Jax gulped, looking around the hall. There were a few more rooms he could try. "O-okay, I-" he looked down the opposite end of the corridor. The pilot was gone, back in the fight, hopefully. "I can't think of anything to say that wouldn't jinx the moment, so I'm just gonna go!" he called, and ran.

He didn't get far. A blast singed his leg and he was down, yelping in pain.

He turned around and started crawling backward, looking at the silhouette at the end of the corridor. Only now did he realize much of the yelling had stopped.

_Don't you - DA DA DA DA DUN- forget about me~_

As they stepped closer, Jax could tell they were not one of the Chorusan soldiers. Everything looked shades of blue and red in the alternating light, but Jax could tell the soldier was wearing a dark, dark gunmetal green, their visor shining a bright lavender.

Jax crawled back, whimpering slightly. His eyes darted momentarily to the door Dylan was behind, which the soldier was passing in order to get closer to Jax.

Distraction. He was good at being a distraction.

"Listen, you seem like you've really established yourself as a big bad here," Jax stammered. "I don't think there's really any need to kill anyone else. Especially me."

His eyes were going fuzzy from the searing pain radiating up his leg. That was the leg Temple shot too. Damn. At least if he fainted his camera would catch everything for him to watch later. If he survived.

His back hit the end of the hall, and the armored invader loomed over him. The bass of the song hit a buzzing thump-th-thump which his heart beat was on tempo with. 

Without warning, a surprisingly sweet woman's voice responded. "That is very good to know, thank you!" She said.

Jax blinked, unable to think of anything to say, realizing he still had the song playing. "Uh, so you're not going to kill me...?"

"Oh, I certainly hope not," she responded, so sincere while lacking any emotional depth needed to make him feel at ease. "That really depends on whether you are in my way of finding the Reds and Blues. Do you happen to know any information regarding their whereabouts?"

Jax gulped again. "The-th-their whereabouts? Whosabouts? I don-don't think I know anything, but that doesn't mean I'm stopping ya," he rambled. "Not like I have any stake in the matter, or anything, at all, I'm just a dude!"

He stopped talking, sweating under the intense stare of the lavender visor. 

Suddenly a warm laugh escaped the figure. "I think you are lying, but I like that," she said, a tease in her voice. "Do you know them? Maybe they have mentioned me. Hello-"

She leaned down curtly, and Jax winced back, before realizing she was merely extending her hand. Jax took it fearfully.

"-My name is Sheila," she finished. He had a feeling she was smiling somewhere behind the visor. "It is _very_ nice to meet you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, i just wanted Sheila kicking ass and taking names to 80's classics okay  
> but also, plot


End file.
